Target Watson
by Keldafir
Summary: [Re-Vamped Version Of "To Care For A Person"] After John's sister is murdered by a psychopath working for James Moriarty, Sherlock has to stop the killer before he comes after John. When the blogger's safety is compromised, Sherlock realises how much John means to him and must get to him before it's too late. Rated T for violence, gore, angst, and because I felt like it.
1. Prologue

Carter Jayne walked around in a hazy, drugged stupor for most of his time at the Hanwell Asylum, having been sent there on the grounds that he was criminally insane. He was, however, smart enough to know why. When he was in his teen years, having just moved to London from America, he had fallen in love with a pretty English girl named Harriet Watson. She was sassy and smart, with maybe a small amount of over-fondness toward alcohol, despite being underage. Carter charmed her into his life, and almost right into his bed, when she shocked him by kicking him to the curb. She was a lesbian. Carter had always been homophobic, and he was proud of it because he believed that what he stood for was correct and true: homosexuality is blasphemous and pointless and wrong.

Carter had always been a cold, unswaying, nearly emotionless child, only finding happiness when he moved across the pond and met Harriet. But when she left him, he cracked. He stopped being able to control his violence against women, specifically lesbians, and was re-located to an all-male boarding school. But there was still homosexuality there, and Carter started having homicidal thoughts, and even tried to kill his classmates on more than one occasion. He was admitted to a mental hospital for a brief period of time and was diagnosed with an impulse control disorder, put on medication, and released. A decade and a half passed since his release with no incident, until Carter got a random impulse to stop taking his medication.

One night, the American man went out to a public speaking presentation about gay rights, and picked out a few women that reminded him of the Bitch (for that was the name he had given Harriet over the years), that he developed plans to kill. He started by stalking each one of them, remaining unknown and in the shadows. Finding out where they lived, where they worked, their names, and one by one he came to them, lured them away from their safety, and slit their throats. It made Carter feel accomplished, actually doing what the voices in his head had been telling him for years.

He was going to the fifth girl's house, the fifth girl he was going to kill, when a tall man in a black coat began to follow him. He turned and changed his course, but no matter what Carter did, he couldn't shake the man. He began to run, abandoning his impulses, and inevitably running into a trap. He found himself facing a vaguely familiar-looking man, short, blond, and pointing a gun in his face. The police showed up seconds later, and Jayne found himself yelling out impulsive threats toward the man in the dark coat and his brave little companion.

And so, Jayne found himself walking the familiar halls of Hanwell, though little did he know that something was about to change. About a month into his stay in the institution, Carter was called down to the visitor's area. No one ever visited him; everyone he ever knew was too scared to even speak to him. Still, he went along with his escorts to the concrete-walled room filled with small groupings of tables and chairs that was designated as the Visiting Area. He was led to a table where a handsome, dark-haired, well-dressed man sat, grinning like a cat. Jayne had no idea who this man was, but was intrigued by the mystery surrounding him.

The man extended his hand, which Jayne shook, and greeted him with a strong Irish lilt.

"Mr. Jayne, I presume?" Carter nodded and took his seat. "I have reason to believe that you would make a great asset to my web."

"Your web?" Jayne was getting more and more curious about this man.

"My name is James Moriarty, and I have a little bargain to make with you that will put you in a place of power and fortune here in London. How would you like to pay Harriet Watson a visit?" The man, Moriarty, grinned and Jayne tensed as he heard the Bitch's name. The Irishman didn't give Jayne any time to respond before continuing.

"I can get you out of this place within a month's time, and get you the whereabouts of Miss Watson if you promise to do one thing for me. Kill her brother, John. I'm sure you remember him? The little detective's pet soldier?"

Recognition sparked in Jayne's grey eyes. This John Watson was the blond man who had aimed his gun at him in the alley, the night he was arrested for murdering the 4 women. Moriarty grinned, shot a wink in Jayne's direction, and left the visiting area.


	2. Chapter 1

It had been a normal day at 221B Baker Street; the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes and his ever-faithful blogger and companion (Not his date!) John Watson, were seated in their sitting room. John was quite comfortable in his chair, tea perched on the armrest and newspaper on his lap. The morning had turned out to be rather grey, rain clouds gathering and blocking out the sun, causing an eerie stillness to settle upon the hectically messy flat. John was rather happy though, calm, and relaxed this morning and was just about to get up and put his mug in the sink, when he was interrupted by a groan from Sherlock.

"John," the blogger rolled his eyes as his flatmate whined his name. "I'm bored, I need a case!" The pyjama-clad detective rolled over in his position on the couch to face John, arms crossed like a stubborn child.

He did indeed need a case, and a good one too. He'd been wishing for someone to commit a good old-fashioned murder as soon as he solved his last case. What Scotland Yard had thought to be a series of random murders by the same man (all male victims of the same age from various parts of London and its surrounding area), then turned out to be a fraternity's years old suicide pact, triggered by the first man's note after his own suicide.

The notes were all typed and all led to the next victim, but the men weren't committing suicide, they were being killed by a schoolmate of the victims, one who was more than a little mad that he was kicked out of the fraternity many years previous for committing petty theft. It took Sherlock less than half a week to figure that one out, it would have taken less if Anderson had shown Sherlock the notes faster.

That had been three days ago, and now Sherlock was practically going insane with impatience and boredom. And the consulting detective's behaviour was driving John equally insane. He had already confiscated his handgun after waking up at 3 am to find Sherlock having target practice with the living room wall again. John tried getting the detective to pass his time doing non-destructive things like reading; experiments were off limits after Sherlock let a pair of sheep's eyes blow up in the microwave, but the man claimed he'd read every book worth reading already and proceeded to sulk his life away on the sofa.

"Sherlock, it's been only three days since we've had a case! For Christ's sake, if you're so eager for one, go out and ask Lestrade!" John said, huffing as he folded up his newspaper and got up, depositing it on a reasonably clear expanse of the kitchen table before rinsing his mug. He knew that it was no use to try and convince Sherlock to leave the house, but he figured that if he kept trying that maybe someday he'd listen.

The ex-army doctor sighed and crossed back into the sitting room where he stared expectantly toward his unkempt flatmate. Sherlock hadn't changed out of his pyjamas the since he solved their last case, and as far as John knew, he hadn't showered either. Dark circles were visible under the man's unusually blue-grey eyes, and it was a wonder to John that Sherlock looked so tired since he'd been loafing around doing practically nothing. And if it weren't for John's adamancy toward Sherlock's wellbeing, then the dark-haired man wouldn't have eaten anything either.

"Well," prompted John, getting more than a little fed up. "Are you going to spend the day lazing around on your arse, moaning about boredom? Or are you going to go out and, I don't know, be productive? Maybe Molly has a nice cadaver for you at the mor-"

He was cut off by Sherlock spewing out a huge, and surprisingly accusatory, rambling deduction and analysis.

"Don't be dense John, Lestrade would have texted me by now if he required my abilities and you and I both know for a fact that there's no cadavers for me at the morgue or else Molly would have sent one of her overly sweetened and attention-seeking emails. I can't shoot at anything ever since you hid your gun with my brother Mycroft, I can't do experiments since you clearly and colourfully told me exactly what you'd do with my microscope should I ever destroy the kitchen again, and you won't even let me play my violin at night because your inferiority requires you to sleep for an ungodly amount of time at night," Sherlock was standing now, close to John and towering over the ex-army doctor. He had a feeling this angry rant was a product of nicotine withdrawal, but that wasn't any matter now; he was on a roll.

"So let me sincerely apologize for my attitude, though I know you'd rather have me stuck inside tearing apart my own mind in sheer aggravation, or 'whine' as you've so often put it," the consulting detective continued. "But let me point out to you one thing, John: you know you want there to be a case. It's not just because you want me out of the flat, oh no, but because you need the adventure. Your hand's been clenching in and out of fists as you try to hide the tremor that appears there when you're craving the feel of your gun again, and I see how often you check your blog, phone and email, as if you'd be informed first of a case over myself. Oh, and one more thing-"

But this time Sherlock was cut off by his mobile buzzing - a text. A case. Half a moment passed in which John was still shocked by Sherlock's outburst and Sherlock was revelling in the pre-case anticipation before snatching up the phone and opening the message. It was, in fact, from DI Lestrade.

John was used to this by now, the brief charged moment before the whirlwind of activity that comes with each new case, but he saw something else on Sherlock's face than the usual triumph and excitement. In the mysterious eyes of his friend he saw... Sadness. The taller man sunk back down onto the couch and yes, he looked... sad. But Sherlock was a sociopath, he'd said so himself! Surely sociopaths couldn't feel that much sadness in that so brief a time. John let himself believe that maybe this man wasn't the machine the ex-army doctor often thought he was. He softened and walked over to sit beside Sherlock on the sofa, who turned to face John with a grim and ominous expression on his face.

"What, Sherlock? What is it?" John was surprised when Sherlock put his hand on John's shoulder and looked straight into his eyes before answering.

"It's Lestrade. A body's just been found," the detective took a deep breath before continuing. "John, the body, it's... Your sister's. Harriet Watson has been murdered."

John felt all the light in the room go out and went completely numb as he struggled to connect the words that he just heard together.

His sister. His sister was dead.


	3. Chapter 2

Dressed in his signature dramatic coat and blue scarf over a white shirt and trousers, Sherlock stood out under the pier, leaning in close to inspect Harriet's - the victim's - collar. The woman was in her mid-forties, a couple of years older than John, and was dressed in a pale purple t-shirt and bootcut jeans. Her feet were clad in running shoes, and her strawberry blonde hair was haphazardly twisted into a bun. The detective could see that she had been in the river for a day, 2 days at most. According to the young fisherman who discovered her - the - body, she - it - had washed ashore as the Thames' level lowered early this morning.

Sherlock was having a bit of a hard time with his usual deductions, seeing as he held a personal connection to the victim. He'd only met Harriet Watson once at Christmas the year previous, when John had insisted on inviting her to their place instead of travelling to Bristol to visit. Sherlock hasn't hated the woman, or rather he didn't hate her as much as he hated all the other "idiots", but he did hold a kind of respect to her. She cared about John, as he did, and John still remained loyal to her even after her alcohol problems. Yes, Sherlock could admit to himself that he did truly care about John Watson, but he didn't want to explore the feeling any further or lead John to notice. Sentiment, how disgusting.

However, telling John that his sister had been murdered (evident by gaping knife wound to her throat and struggle wounds showing themselves on her exposed upper arms), was unbearably uncomfortable. At first Sherlock could see that John was concerned for him, and not himself, and that made Sherlock feel a strange sort of... pain, that he couldn't quite place. He'd witnessed his fair share of bad news being broken, and had learned the ways to comfort a person. To soften the blow, per say.

The total change in John's expression was sudden and drastic. It had looked as though someone had sucked all the life out of the ex-army doctor. The colour drained from his face and Sherlock had to tighten his grip on John's shoulder, for fear the smaller man might faint. John had stood up then, and would have fallen if Sherlock hadn't seen the man stagger to one side as though the floor was on a steep slope.

John muttered something about wanting to be alone and go to bed, but Sherlock could see that the man was in no state to make it upstairs to his own room. Sherlock changed into some regular clothes in his room before returning to find John in the exact position he was left in. The detective had a plan. Sherlock put an arm around John's shoulders and slowly guided him into his room on the ground floor. He rarely let anyone see, let alone sleep in, his room. But something had changed in him, and he wanted to make everything as easy for John as possible.

He already felt guilt, which is something he thought he'd never feel, for his angry outburst earlier that morning. How could he have been so insulting to his (admittedly and accepted) only friend, whose sister had just been found dead and murdered? Sherlock knew how it felt to lose a family member; his mother died when Sherlock was only twelve, followed by his father five years later, but he had had drugs and an increasingly powerful older brother to help him through it (more or less), and Harriet was John's last living close relative.

Sherlock had made sure that John was absolutely sure he wanted to be alone before departing to the address included in Lestrade's text:

[Body found at Milson's pier identified as Harriet Watson. Evidence leans very strongly toward foul play; suspected murder. Be easy on John when you tell him. Don't make this harder than it has to be. I'm not forcing you to take this case but it's better you work on it, for John's sake and sanity. GL]

The consulting detective had even asked John if it was still alright for him to work on this case, but he was answered with silence. Just as Sherlock was going to get up from his position sitting beside his flatmate on the edge of the bed, John rasped out a shaky sentence.

"You get that bloody bastard."

Sherlock could tell that John was holding back his tears for his sake, so gave the man a determined nod and a brief squeeze of his hand on the doctor's good shoulder, and left the flat. After a twenty-one minute cab ride and a forty-six second briefing, Sherlock was right into his mind palace, analyzing, cataloging and recording everything he could about the crime scene. For he knew that this may not be his most high-profile case, but it was his most important case. Because he'd just connected Harriet's murder to a memory he thought he had deleted.

About a year ago, Sherlock and John were on a case involving an American psychopath who was committing a series of murders of lesbian women. Sherlock had figured out that it wasn't just extreme homophobia and an impulse disorder driving the killer, Mr. Carter Jayne, forward, but some sort of well-buried past incident. When Sherlock and John had caught Jayne, John had commented on how familiar the man looked.

"He reminds me of this poor bloke my sister dated in high school, before she figured out she was gay," John had laughed before adding; "If I remember correctly, actually, he was the one who made Harry realize she was gay. Couldn't be him, though could it?" Sherlock had shrugged and John continued. "Nah, this guy's too far off his rocker."

"I NEVER FORGET A FACE!"

Jayne had crowed shrilly, as if on cue, glaring wildly, directing his threat towards John who was leaning against a police cruiser beside Sherlock. He was simultaneously being restrained and hauled into a white van by two very official and very strong looking men. The murderer was shipped off to a mental hospital up north somewhere and the case was forgotten. But now that Sherlock was making connections again, he saw the way the killings two years ago matched up almost identically to Harriet's. Though less messy, as if the killer had gotten more experience.

If the man who killed Harriet was in fact who Sherlock thought it was, then the priority of the case just got bumped up a few thousand notches. John was going to be the next target.


	4. Chapter 3

If a person were to stand in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, for no reason and with no prior knowledge, that person would still feel the pain that could be heard in the sobs of the man sitting alone in a bedroom that wasn't his. John Watson sat on the edge of the bed, Sherlock's bed, where the detective had left him. Except now the ex-army doctor was doubled over, choking out sobs for the last family member he had left. He still couldn't believe Harry was gone. She was just getting back on her feet after alcoholism rehabilitation, and was going to start working as a secretary for a life insurance company.

Why does he always lose the ones he loves? His mother took her own life when John was only 8, and his father was involved in a drunk driving accident and died when John was in training for Afghanistan. He and Harry were then put under the care of their mother's foster father, but when John was fighting abroad, he received a letter stating how his Grandfather had died of a stroke.

There was absolutely no one left. No one except poor invalided John. He realized after god knows how long, that he couldn't cry anymore. He felt sick, embarrassed, tired and pathetic. Get yourself together, he thought. You've been through worse, haven't you?

"Haven't I?" He whispered out into the unwelcome darkness of his flatmate and friend's bedroom. It had started raining at last, when that was John didn't know. He took a deep breath, or tried to, and shuffled into the downstairs bathroom to get himself together. His shoulder and leg were acting up again, so he took some of his stronger pain meds before looking himself over in the mirror.

John looked too pale and too old to be himself, with red and puffy eyes still wet from crying. His hair was sticking up in odd directions from holding his head in his hands for so long. God, his back was killing him.

"You shouldn't hunch over like that if it hurts your back so much."

John jumped in shock at the sound of a very familiar baritone voice. Sherlock was home. How long he'd been home and how much he'd seen, or heard rather, John didn't know. Sherlock turned a bit pink, embarrassed.

"Sorry, I just, um..." The detective cleared his throat. "I wanted to uhm... To see if you're alright?"

John was flattered by the fact Sherlock cared about him so much. They'd grown close over the three years they'd lived together, and were very comfortable around each other. They'd been through a lot; cases and otherwise.

"Sherlock, I..." John cleared his throat and tried again. His voice was hoarse from the sobbing. "Sherlock, I don't think I'll be alright for awhile." He forced a tiny smile for his friend and had to try very hard not to start crying again. He might have imagined it, but John thought he saw Sherlock wince at his words.

"It's almost after one, now," the detective remarked, feeling horrible about this all but trying to make light conversation. John's eyes widened at that; Sherlock had left to the... the scene, at a little after ten that morning. Sherlock continued speaking. "If you like, you can shower and then I'll make you some tea? Or you can sleep if you want. Up to you."

Sherlock was acting very out of character, and John realized why. Sherlock felt guilty about being angry with John right before receiving the news of his sister's death. The ex-army doctor could have cried again at that, Sherlock had absolutely nothing to be sorry for.

"Sher-," John was cut off by a sob, oh god, crying again. "You don't have t-," another sob. John felt like an idiot, embarrassed to be seen so vulnerable in the eyes of his friend. He drew in a shuddering breath and was about to start again when he became suddenly engulfed in a hug from Sherlock. It was awkward, the detective being quite a bit taller than John, but it was comforting and so unexpectedly kind that John couldn't help but wrap his arms around Sherlock's thin frame and sob into the taller man's chest.

The consulting detective tightened his arms around his friend and rested his chin on the top of John's head, closing his eyes and fighting off his own emotions that were trying to force their way through his emotionless facade. It didn't take long for the smaller man to tire himself out, but Sherlock did not let go of him until the ex-army doctor pulled his arms back and scrubbed his hands over his face.

"Sorry about that, Sherlock, I just-," John's apology was cut off by Sherlock.

"Don't. It's alright," Sherlock could never have said anything more firm or sympathetic in his life, as far as John was concerned. The consulting detective let out a heavy sigh, and gave his friend a small smile. "You get yourself cleaned up and I'll go make the tea."

With that, he left, not even thinking to change into a non-tearstained shirt. He made his way briskly into the kitchen, filled the kettle and waited for it to boil. Sherlock waited until he heard the shower turn on in the bathroom before letting his emotions crack through to the surface. He didn't sob the way John had, but let only a few tears slide down his face. He wasn't crying for the loss of Harriet, he was crying for John. Sherlock had to tell him that he would be the next target, but he was scared. A feeling that Sherlock Holmes could never feel for anyone else but John.


	5. Chapter 4

The rain streamed down in grey sheets, swirling down gutters, pooling into puddles, and running like tears down the windows of 221B Baker Street. Inside, the mood was solemn, matching the feeling of the rain that wasn't going to let up anytime soon. John Watson sat next to his flatmate, friend, and famous consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. Both were sipping on their tea, neither were speaking.

The shower had actually made John feel a little better, physically. The steam calmed him down quite a bit from his tenseness and tearful mood, and the hot water dulled the pain in his back, leg, and shoulder. Well, it was that or his pain meds had kicked kicked in. He had decided to change into some sweatpants and a t-shirt, facing the fact that he wasn't going to do anything for the rest of the day. Or a few days. He had already called the surgery and told Sarah that he was taking personal time off, which she understood.

When John made his way out to the sitting room, he could have sworn he saw tear stains on Sherlock's face, but he must have just imagined them. The detective had nothing to cry over, but John had a feeling in the back of his mind that Sherlock knew something and wasn't telling him.

"Tea's just made, John. You have impeccable timing," Sherlock was purposely trying to make light conversation, stalling for time as he battled with the fact that he would be the one to tell his friend that the man who killed his sister was going to kill him next.

"Great, thanks," John said as he took the steaming mug of tea from Sherlock's hand and sat down on the couch. He took a tentative sip and was pleasantly surprised to find the tea precisely as he liked it. Of course it is, he thought. Sherlock knows how to do everything exactly the right way. Well, not everything. John chuckled at that to himself as Sherlock sat down beside him.

"What's so funny?" The taller man asked incredulously.

"Nothing," John looked up at Sherlock and sighed. "Just nothing."

A few hours earlier, the two men were seated in that exact same position. John thinking that there was a new case, Sherlock struggling to tell John that his sister had been murdered. According to post-mortem results, Harriet Watson had died due to the blood loss from her severed carotid arteries, but she had put up quite the fight before she succumbed. There was blood under her nails but no other open cuts, meaning that it was likely that of her killer. But Sherlock had a strong feeling that he already knew the man who killed his friend's older sister. Mr. Carter Jayne.

Sherlock had done some quick research on his laptop when he first returned home, distracting himself from the sounds of his flatmate's harsh sobs. He was grateful that Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister for a couple of weeks and wasn't dithering about and fussing over "the poor dear", as she would say. Sherlock had found out that Carter Jayne had been released from the custody of the mental hospital under the pretence that he was cured of his insanity and under the influence of careful suppressing medication. Clearly that was not the case, if he was still being driven to murder Harriet Watson.

Sherlock kept thinking back to what John had said after their first encounter with Jayne, from a year ago. If this man was indeed the "poor bloke" who Harriet had broken up with because he made her realize she was gay, then that would give him (a rather petty) motive for the previous killings of lesbians. Now that Jayne had finally killed the girl who broke his heart, he could get at John, her younger brother and one of the men responsible for his arrest. Jayne was certifiably insane, but he must have been smart enough to have faked some reasonably believable sanity to have been released from the mental hospital. But the questions Sherlock still had left were where was Jayne staying and when would be strike next? Did he know where John was? Was he working for someone toward a bigger cause?

For now, Sherlock didn't now, but he was determined to find out. John's life was potentially at stake! Speaking of the ex-army doctor, Sherlock felt it time to tell the man his findings. He was scared, but he had to tell him. To keep him safe.

"John?" The consulting detective set his tea down on the coffee table and turned to look at his friend. John hummed his acknowledgement and set down his mug as well.

"Did you... Did you figure out who... You know..." John braced himself against Sherlock's response.

"Do you remember the Carter Jayne killings last year?" Inquired the detective. John nodded and replied.

"Yeah, that bloke killing all the gay girls. Creepy bastard. He got carted off to the nuthouse though, didn't he?"

"Yes, John. And do you remember that he looked like the boy your sister," Sherlock felt John wince beside him. "Dated before she realized she was a lesbian?" John nodded again but didn't reply. "The man, Jayne, he was the one whom your sister had dated. He was, as you said, "off his rocker", and hated lesbians due to this past endeavour. Hence why he killed those four women last year. If you'll remember, Jayne had threatened you as he was being hauled away to the hospital. The thing is John, that he's been released from the institution."

John's jaw dropped. He didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce what the consulting detective was about to say. He still needed to hear it himself though, so listened all the same.

"Carter Jayne is responsible for your sister's murder. And I've been led to believe that you're the next one on his list."

John was expecting this, but it still somehow felt like a surprise. It was a hard and painful blow, and all he could think was, well, couldn't get any worse! Could it?


End file.
